


Give Me Your Wings

by MyColorfulMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sad Ending, Suicidal John, Suicide, Unresolved Emotional Tension, much angst, tags are so hard to do omg, tell me if i should tag anything else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyColorfulMind/pseuds/MyColorfulMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Sherlock jumped off of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, John decided he couldn't take it anymore.<br/>Little did he know, Sherlock was finished with his work and ready to come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Your Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a little idea but it grew and I am so sorry but also eh not really. Have fun! 
> 
> (This has not been beta'd or checked for grammatical errors. If you see something major, let me know and I'll change it.  
> This is my first published work, so I hope it's decent and readable.  
> And also I hope that I didn't make John too ooc. I tried not to, but I'm afraid I did.)
> 
> ((Also, sorry in advance to your hearts.))

John wasn't blind.

He saw the way people looked at him. But today was going to be different. He didn't wake up with the anxiety he had been plagued with for the past two years nor the heavy heart, because he knew something everyone else didn't.

He was going to see Sherlock today.

* * *

First he went to the clinic. It was his day off, and while they had given him strange looks, he just smiled and said “I didn't know if you lot could get along properly without me.” He was having a laugh, but discreetly, John _was_  making sure they would be alright. The doctors and nurses had been so wonderful to him, the least he could do was be kind in return. _And_ gently slip the equivalent of his last ten or so paychecks into their drawer. 

Next: ah, New Scotland Yard. He took a brief moment just to gaze at the building. Smells, memories oh so fresh. John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the muscles in his neck tense up. _A new case, John! - You're brilliant. - Do people have archenemies? - This is a drugs bust! - This is my note. - Sherlock!_

John gasped back to life, chest heaving and breathing gone ragged. But he wasn't doing this today. Today he was going to be happy. It's what Sherlock would do.

So many people to see but he probably wouldn't give half of them a second glance — in respect for the one they called _"a freak"._  Greg was good though. He took care of Sherlock; John truly believed that.

Once he made it up to his office, the first thing he saw was Lestrade reading the newspaper with a doughnut in his hand. "Go away." he said, not even looking up. John just knocked on the door frame. "I said-" but once his gaze landed on grey eyes, he was stunned. "John."

"It's me."

"Yeah, yeah it is." Greg was smiling a bit now, and he had put down his newspaper. "It's been forever. How've you been." And John both lied and told the truth. There was no need to worry anyone now. He was coping. Sherlock was helping him cope — in a way. 

Greg invited him in for a seat and some coffee. John couldn't say no.

Then he went to visit Molly, and she was her nervous self, always saying the wrong things but with good intentions —  _Ah, John. Why are you here? N-not that I don't enjoy you here, it just feels a bit weird. Not weird! Not weird. Just-_  — and John had to cut her off with a laugh. He told her he was there to see how she was doing; trying to get back into society. Molly smiled at him and they had a nice little chat. It almost felt as though things were normal again. 

A trip was next. To his first crime scene, to that one Chinese restaurant, to that alleyway where they had held hands and looked at each other and felt like it was just the two of them against the world and — _ah,_ the memories. He would treasure them surely. But one place rose against all the others without even having to think about it.

Baker Street. 

When he came face to face with the door, he was filled with incomprehensible emotion. Sorrow, hurt, regret, joy, love — all of those, perhaps. But above all: nostalgia.

He pressed a hand to the glossy black door that was looking rather scuffed nowadays. He could almost see that night after the dinner at Angelo's, chests heaving with laughter and the best feeling he's felt since he came back from war. That may have been the first time he truly laughed he can't remember. 

Or how about that time they had to read all those books? That time he found a head in the fridge? That godawful Christmas party? Those mysterious texts? Oh, and who could forget that time with the bomb and- when did tears start running down his cheeks?

He quickly wiped his face and figured he would blame his red nose on the cold. As bad as he wanted to go in, to see everything the way it was and hope it still had a smell, he didn't think he could. He knew Mrs. Hudson hadn't rented it out to anyone, but it would only distract him. He would probably end up curled around Sherlock's old coat in his old room reminiscing about their old life — _their_ life. 

John had to go.

He didn't leave, however, before visiting Mrs. Hudson and making her some tea. John talked like old times; old times like when she would visit and they would have a chat over telly. She looked baffled, but he just kissed her cheek and told her she was the loveliest housekeeper anyone could’ve hoped for. She didn't even correct him.

John sent a text to Harry, telling her how he loved her and how he wished they could've made up. It was short and simple, but considering they didn't speak that much anyway, he considered it okay.

He didn't go to Sherlock's grave, because he had already made his peace with him the previous day. Also, he knew he would be seeing him soon enough.

And that's how he got where he is now, sitting atop St. Bartholomew Hospital, journal chock full of words on pages, post it notes, and random little pieces of his life — even a piece of Sherlock's scarf he managed to nip before the police coined it as their own. His whole life in one journal.

The past few months, his blog had seemed so impersonal. Anonymous names linked to anonymous faces? No, John wanted it to feel real. The times he spent with Sherlock were the best times of his life, and he'd be damned if they were cheapened by something anyone could view. This was personal for him. He cared for Sherlock, and he was going to make sure his story was told right.

He thought his hand would be shaking, but it was unnaturally calm. Perhaps someone could actually read this entry. A blue pen, he decided. The exact same blue in parallel with the famed detective's scarf. The wind acted as his backing, while his thoughts motivated him still. This would be his last entry.

It was full of _"Dear so-and-so"_ s and happy memories; quotes he'd had weeks to dwell over and a final confession. A confession he hadn't muttered to anyone except the walls of his bedroom in his sleep. A confession that he made only in the form of a single red rose in front of a black headstone. A confession. 

He found himself smiling just a bit and sighed, laying the journal off to the side in hopes that whoever found it would be able to tell the story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson true to life.

Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he dialed a number that seemed so familiar yet so underused. One ring, two rings, three rings, four...

"Yes?" Mycroft answered. The tone in his voice suggested that he hadn't been bothered to look to see who was calling.

“There’s a book on the roof of St. Barts under the breaker box on the — well, I’m sure you’ll figure out where it is.”

“John? What’s this all about?”

“Everything that’s important to me is in that book. Please take care of it.”

“John-“

“I can’t do it. I thought I could, I thought eventually it’d get easier, but it’s only gotten worse.” John had to take a shaky breath. _I’m a fake. - Sherlock’s a fraud. - Goodbye, John._

He was approaching the very spot.

“I’m a doctor, I know what to tell people who are grieving, but this is so different. I've been to war and never experienced a pain like this. The scrutiny that he went through — hell, is _still_ going through — is so unfair. You of all people should know that! Just.. Make this right. He was a good man, and in no way did he deserve any of this."

"Alright, but wouldn't this have been more important two years ago?"

"Don't you dare speak about him like he's still not important. There is nothing more important than-" John stopped. He was getting too worked up. "Just do it, okay?"

"Yeah, alright. Where are you?" 

"On top of St. Barts, I told you." he said a bit longingly. He had stepped up and onto the very spot, the very _brick,_ Sherlock had. "The world looks so small from up here."

"John, what are you doing?"

A deep breath through his nose could be heard down the line. "I can almost feel his presence. And it's a perfect day, really _—_ like the day he stood up here."

"John, stop right ther-" 

"No, it's okay. I feel calm for the first time in two years. I can finally see him again. Tell me, what would be better than that?"

"John, there's really no need, I promise. Just come down to-"

"No, Mycroft. Goodbye."

"John-"

"John!"

But the last call was from a different voice, a deeper voice. The most beautiful voice his ears had ever heard and hadn't heard in so long it hurt.

"Sherlock?" _No no no,_ God, _no!_ His foot slipped; he had already taken a step off. There was nothing beneath him and his heart was sinking.

"John, no, don't, what are you doing?"

A single tear ran down his cheek before-

"John? John?! Joh-!"

There was a loud crackle on Mycroft's end of the phone, signifying the phone had been shattered.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so so sorry
> 
> [ whispers ] I'm going to be writing an epilogue soon uwu


End file.
